Legacy
by Every Shade of Blue
Summary: Sam is one of the younger members of the White House staff, so he sees many funerals over the years. Follows Sam throughout his life as he says goodbye to those he's lost and remembers the legacy they've left behind.


There were always less of them. It hadn't been that way at first; for a long time, Sam had kept tabs on them all, had kept in touch with many of them. There had been such strong bonds between them, bonds that could only come from years of fighting together to make their voices heard and weathering scandals and working through long, sleepless nights. Practically the moment the Bartlet administration had ended, they had been scattered to the winds, people who had worked so closely together for so long suddenly spread across the country and beyond - yet the bonds had remained. But the years passed, and time went on, and eventually, inevitably, there were less of them than there had been before.

Ron Butterfield was the first to go. When Sam heard the news, he was surprised at the strength of his reaction. Ron wasn't one of the ones Sam still checked up on, but he remembered hearing things over the years, bits and pieces of a successful career. After Jed Bartlet had left the presidency, Ron had stepped down as head of the President's security. Eventually, he was recruited by the FBI. When Sam saw the obituary in the Sunday newspaper, the death of a man who had spent so much time and energy selflessly protecting the President - and by extent, Sam and the rest of the senior staff - came as a painful blow. Busy as Sam was as President Santos' Deputy Chief of Staff, he was careful to make time to attend the funeral.

Carol Fitzpatrick was next. Sam got the news over a phone call from a tearful CJ, who had remained good friends with her former assistant after leaving the White House. It came as another shock; Carol had only been a little older than Sam. She had been sick for a long while, CJ said. The funeral was small, and held in Carol's hometown in Oregon. In the middle of yet another international crisis, Sam couldn't make it to the other side of the country in time, but CJ assured him that it was a beautiful service.

Several years passed before their strange, widespread little family lost another member. From the end of the eight-year Santos presidency, Sam had eventually gone on to successfully run for governor of his home state of California. It was there that he received a call one afternoon from his best friend, asking if he'd heard the news. This time it was Margaret. Sitting in his office later that day, Sam could still hear the echo through the years of a familiar, long-lost voice calling for his assistant - " _Margaret!_ " - and he felt the old pang of guilt that never failed to arise when he remembered that he hadn't been able to make it to Leo's funeral. Somehow, that made it seem all the more important that he should attend Margaret's. She had never married, but she'd had two children, both daughters. Sam found it comforting that they were just as strange, and yet utterly brilliant and capable as their mother. It seemed important that the world shouldn't lose that presence.

When Sam's assistant Cathy - who he had missed greatly after those first couple of years in the White House, until he had at last convinced her to return - showed Josh into his office and said far too knowingly that she'd cleared his schedule for the afternoon, Sam hadn't been surprised. Part of him had known it was coming, he supposed, long before Josh held out the note that read _Seaborn for America_. Jed Bartlet had predicted it years before, after all; what could Sam do now but accept? Having the outspoken and enthusiastic support of such an esteemed former President was a godsend for Sam's campaign. Even when the MS finally began to catch up with him and they all tried to ask him to slow down, he was a stubborn, unmovable champion for his candidate, his youngest adopted son, until the last. Both Sam and his opponent had to halt their campaigns for the funeral, but everyone knew Sam would have done so anyway. Even with the election only weeks away, he needed the time to mourn a man who had been both a mentor and a second father, whose guidance had ultimately enabled Sam to achieve almost everything he had so far. From then on, there were two new photographs hanging in the campaign headquarters. One was a copy of an old picture of Governor Bartlet during his own bid for the presidency, his newly-hired young speechwriter hovering at his side. The second showed the same two men many years later, older and greyer, again standing side by side, but this time they appeared as equals. Below the two photos was pinned a scrap of paper inscribed with a single line of Sam's neatest handwriting. It read simply, _See the whole board_.

Sam's first day in the Oval Office was almost surreal. He walked into the room for the first time as President of the United States and stopped dead, momentarily unable to take his place behind the Resolute Desk. At first he had to laugh at himself; it wasn't as if this was his first time in the Oval, after all. He'd spent countless hours in this room over the years as a staffer and advisor to the President. But he'd never seen it from the other side of that desk. As he stood there, frozen in place just inside the door, he could see them all sitting there - himself, Josh, Toby, CJ, and Leo - and President Bartlet behind the desk, watching their discussion, monitoring the tide of ideas and advice. Sam let out a long, slow breath, suddenly more hesitant than he'd ever been during the campaign. How could he ever hope to sit in that chair, to take the place of men like Matt Santos and Jed Bartlet? _Am I ready for this?_ It was Josh who finally snapped him out of his reverie, who reminded him that he was in this room not just because the country believed in him, but because Bartlet had. Just as Josh had brought Sam to Washington - twice - and then eventually onto the campaign trail, he now brought him into the chaos of the Oval Office. It was strange having his best friend as his Chief of Staff, and for the first time, Sam had some insight into what governing must have been like for Bartlet and Leo. Even all of their years of friendship couldn't overcome the rift that the position of the presidency made necessary between them. He wasn't just Sam anymore; for the next four - or maybe even eight - years, the gravity of the office meant that he was always Mr. President. It was tiring at times. He missed the easy friendship, the camaraderie. There were days when he looked forward to the end of his term, if only so that Josh could once again slap him on the back and call him a klutz when he tripped over the furniture.

It was Josh who brought him the news, stepping into the Oval with an uncharacteristically subdued greeting and placing a printout of a newspaper article on his desk. " _Will Bailey and his wife Kate Harper-Bailey were killed Saturday afternoon in a car accident…_ " He stopped reading, letting the paper slip from his grasp. He hadn't seen much of Will over the years, but he'd done his best to stay in contact, and through him, he'd gotten to know Kate. Staring at the picture of the couple that headed the article, Sam thought back to the senatorial campaign Will had run in California all those years ago, the one that had led to Sam's first inclination toward holding an office of his own. It had been Will's undying dedication to what had seemed to be a doomed campaign that had motivated Sam to aim for a political position higher than White House speechwriter; he wondered where he would be now if not for Will Bailey.

The next time, it was Cathy who gave him the news. She'd been perusing local newspapers online looking for opinion pieces on the latest bill that Josh and the other staffers had managed to push through Congress when she'd stumbled across a name that sounded familiar and decided to show the obituary to Sam. Lisa Sherborne. So she'd never married, Sam thought as he read the article. She'd done well for herself though, rising through the ranks at Vanity Fair to become one of their head editors. Sam was relieved to find that he harbored no resentment toward the woman who had once broken his heart. He remembered the last time he'd seen her, when she'd come to Washington to write a piece about him during the State of the Union; it had been awkward being around her then, just a few short years after they'd broken off their engagement. He'd known then that if she had asked him to stay in New York, he would have. He would have stayed and married her, and he never would have joined Bartlet's campaign or ended up in the White House or any political office at all. It made him wish he'd talked to her just one last time. It had taken time, but he knew now that he was happy with the decisions he'd made and where they'd taken him, and he found as he read that he was quite proud of her and everything she'd accomplished as well. He hoped that in the end, she'd been as happy as he was.

Sam had known it would cause somewhat of a scandal when he'd asked Toby to come back to the White House to work for him, but that hadn't stopped him. There was no one he'd rather have had writing his speeches, and no amount of outcry or suspicion was going to damage the trust he had in Toby Ziegler. Privately, he knew that Toby hadn't really been the source of the space shuttle leak, but he had never asked who Toby had been covering for. He knew there must have been a good reason, and so he had respected Toby's decision. No matter how the rest of the nation viewed Toby, it never changed Sam's relationship with him. For seven years, Sam was more than willing to find time in his schedule to spend a few hours in Toby's office hammering out his message and helping to write his own speeches, often at the top of his lungs. He wondered if the rest of the Communications staff really understood what was happening when they walked by and heard Toby and the President shouting at each other about imagery and punctuation. After particularly loud disagreements, Sam often heard rumors that he was going to fire Toby. He found them funny. Of course he'd never fire Toby for arguing with him; in a position where it often felt like he was surrounded by a veritable army of yes-men, it was a relief to have someone to disagree with. There were times when fighting with Toby over the lack of action verbs in his writing was the highlight of his day. That was why it came as such a blow when a heart attack ended Toby's life at the beginning of Sam's eighth year as President. Later, he would remember Josh convincing him to leave the Oval, to take the rest of the day off. But that day, the only thing he was aware of was receiving word of what had happened from the hospital and then suddenly finding himself alone in the Residence, wandering the halls as though in a trance. He couldn't stop thinking about Leo. Leo, who had died of a heart attack while his friend was still in office, just like Toby. Suddenly, Sam understood the guilt Josh carried for convincing Leo to run for Vice President, just as Sam had convinced Toby to return to the White House. He understood what it must have been like for Bartlet to lose Leo when he had; he must have been looking forward to the moment when he would leave the presidency, the moment when they could be friends again instead of the President and his staffer. But Leo had died before he could stop calling his friend 'Mr. President' and start calling him 'Jed' again. And now Toby had died before he could stop calling _his_ friend 'Mr. President' and start calling him 'Sam' again. Sam would have given anything to hear that one last time, to have Toby call him 'Sam' or even 'Princeton' again, if only because then he would have known that he was still Toby's little brother. If the rest of the nation still had any doubts about the man who had once been fired from the White House and nearly sent to prison for treason, they were laid to rest on the same day that Toby was, when an image ran in the newspapers of the President's tears at the funeral. For a few hours that afternoon, everything was different; Sam was less the President, and Josh was less his Chief of Staff. For a few hours, they were best friends mourning their brother. In the weeks that followed, all traces of Toby gradually disappeared from the west wing for the last time. Sam thought they were just about done cleaning out his office; that was why he was surprised one afternoon when he walked into the Oval and found a few mementos sitting on his desk. With a sad smile, Sam picked up the pink rubber ball and the note that lay next to it, which read in Josh's messy scrawl, _I thought you'd want this_. Sam bounced the ball on the desk a few times, thinking fondly of Toby bouncing it off the window between their offices, then finally put it down and picked up the other object, an envelope, turning it over in his hands curiously. Written on the front in cramped handwriting that could only be Toby's was one word: _Sam_. He stared at it for a long while, wondering how long it had been hidden in Toby's office. He had wondered in recent days if Toby had known that his health was failing, if he'd known that perhaps he didn't have much time left. Now it seemed he had his answer. Blinking back the tears that threatened to fall, Sam slid a finger under the flap of the envelope, opening it carefully. Inside were two bundles of paper. He pulled out the first and unfolded it, and as soon as he began to read the words, he knew what it was. It was the stump speech Toby and Sam had written during Bartlet's campaign. Sam still remembered how he had felt listening to Bartlet deliver that speech for the first time and discovering how much of his writing Toby had left untouched. He remembered Toby slapping him on the back in amusement at the shock on his face, and he remembered the quiet words he'd murmured as he walked away: "Good work, Princeton." Passing a hand over his eyes, Sam set the sheets aside and pulled out the second bundle, which turned out to be just as recognizable as the first: the stump speech Toby had written for Sam's own campaign. Sam flipped through the pages, once again marveling at the way Toby had been able to capture his own voice so perfectly. When he got to the end, though, five words written at the very bottom of the last page caught his eye: _I'm proud of you, Princeton_.

Without Toby, Sam's last year as President was the most difficult yet; by the time his second term was up, he was ready to give the position up to his successor. All told, he had spent about twenty years of his life in the White House; it was strange to leave for the last time, knowing he would never return. Well into his sixties now, he was ready to leave the place behind. Josh agreed; he was done running campaigns now, he said. Leave that up to the kids. Just as he and Sam had once taken over for Leo McGarry and Jed Bartlet, it was time for the next generation to take over for them. On the day of the next President's inauguration, Abbey Bartlet invited Sam and his wife, Josh and Donna, and CJ and Danny to New Hampshire to stay for a few days. It was the last time any of them saw her alive. At almost ninety years old, she'd been smaller in stature than they remembered, but not so in spirit. She had trouble getting around the house on her own, but she was as sharp and keenly intelligent as ever. Spending time with her felt so much like the old days on the campaign that the three remaining members of Bartlet's original senior staff sometimes felt almost as though no time had passed at all. In the end, they all went their own separate ways, but when they heard the news of Abbey's death, they were reunited once again at the funeral as she was buried next to her husband on a clear, cold winter's day.

It was six years later that the number of remaining staff was reduced to two. Claudia Jean Cregg-Concannon died of old age, leaving behind Danny, three grown children, and a goldfish named Gail. Sam knew that her biggest fear over the years had been succumbing to dementia as her father had. Every misplaced key, forgotten date, and lapse in memory had frightened her - but the worst had never occurred. The last time Sam had seen her, they had spent hours reminiscing about their days on the campaign trail and in the west wing. At the funeral, as he sat next to Josh and listened to Danny deliver a eulogy that Sam himself had helped him write, he found himself almost laughing through his tears as he remembered the last words CJ had ever spoken to him: "I'll see you around, Spanky." It was strange to realize that in all the years he'd known her, all the decades they'd been friends, he'd never known why she called him that. He'd asked her just once, during the campaign; she'd laughed, patted him on the cheek, and replied cheerfully, "That's for me to know, and you to find out, Spanky." But he never had. At first, he wished he would have asked her again - but he didn't think she would have answered.

The next funeral Sam attended was much smaller. The person in remembrance was not a powerful, nationally-known political figure. It was Cathy, his assistant of almost three decades. She'd been hired during Bartlet's first campaign and had come with him to the White House, working in Communications with Toby's assistants, Ginger and Bonnie, for two years. She'd left then after being offered a better paying job, but it hadn't suited her, and when Sam had found himself in need of an assistant after going back to the White House to work for President Santos, she had gladly returned. From there, she had followed him to California where he'd served as Governor, and finally back to the White House once again. She'd been like an older sister to him, reminding him more and more of Mrs. Landingham as the years went by; he wasn't entirely sure he would have made through his presidency without her. There had been more days than he could count when it had seemed as though she was the only thing keeping the Oval Office - and, in fact, the entire government - from descending into chaos, and as Sam said goodbye to her for the last time, he knew he would be eternally grateful.

He understood now how Jed Bartlet had felt at Leo McGarry's funeral. He had always hoped that he never would; some selfish part of him had always wanted his best friend to outlive him, just so that he would never have to carry the pain he had once seen on his second father's face in his own heart. But Josh didn't deserve that, he knew. With all the pain of his own that he'd carried, everyone he'd lost… it was better this way. That was what Sam tried to tell himself as he waited outside the hospital room that was full of Josh's family, as he sat in the front row at the funeral, as he stood by the grave and hugged a grieving Donna. It was better this way. But for once, after all the years and all the funerals, he found himself feeling lost. How could he say goodbye this time? How could he stand by and accept the end of over sixty years of friendship? Josh had been so much to him, had _done_ so much. Josh had brought him back to the White House time and time again. Josh had looked at him and seen so much more potential than Sam himself ever could, and Sam owed him so much. Over the years they had learned so much from each other, had relied unfailingly on each other. They were each godfather to the first of the other's children, children who had grown up practically as family, who had known without needing to be told that their fathers were brothers in all but blood. How could he say goodbye? He stood by the grave, alone now, and the words wouldn't come. It was ironic, he thought. Words were his medium, after all; the one skill he could always fall back on, the one that had never failed him. But now there was simply too much that needed to be said. Instead, as he stood there and fought for the right words, he found himself focusing on a picture in his head: Josh Lyman, standing outside a boardroom with a soaked raincoat and a bad poker face. Sam had to laugh at the simplicity of it. That was all it had taken, that one moment, that one smile that said he'd found the real thing, to change Sam's life forever. And it was that image that gave him the words; plain as they were, they were the only thing left to be said: "Thank you."

There were always less of them. Sam thought about the few who were left: Donna, Charlie, Danny. He wondered how many of them would come to his funeral, who would speak, how they would remember him. He wondered how much longer it would be now before all the people who remembered him as a friend would be gone as well, how long it would be before his legacy was consigned to the annals of history rather than to the memories of loved ones. He wondered what would happen to the small mementos he had left of the people he'd lost: a worn scrap of paper on which the faded words " _Seaborn for America_ " were just visible, a pink rubber ball, a tiny model of the White House that had once resided at the bottom of a fish tank, a chessboard that had once belonged to the Prime Minister of India. It was funny to think that those things that were so very precious to him would be worthless to anyone else. They were the last physical remnants of memories, memories he had once shared with others but now carried on his own. He was the last one left who still remembered a chilly office in New Hampshire where six people from all across the country, from different backgrounds and stations had come together to chase an impossible dream that had taken them all the way to the White House. Much of it looked so small now; all the petty squabbles and partisan conflicts that had seemed so important at the time would be at most footnotes in the history books. Had they done enough? When he was gone, when Donna and Charlie and Danny and all the memories they alone shared were gone, how much would still be remembered?

With a small smile, Sam let out a long, slow breath and closed his eyes. His time was up. _Their_ time was up, and the world moved on. What legacy they left behind was now for history to decide.

 _Legacy.  
_ _What's a legacy?  
_ _It's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see.  
_ _I wrote some notes at the beginning of a song someone will sing for me.  
_ _America, you great unfinished symphony, you sent for me!_

 _-The World Was Wide Enough, Hamilton_


End file.
